Sweet Afterglow

You lie there in the quiet, her head resting on your shoulder, your arm lazily draped around her bare waist. The storm of sex still buzzes in your muscles, but now it’s softened, replaced by an easy warmth. She traces circles on your chest with her fingertip, giggling every so often at some stupid joke you toss out just to keep her smiling.

Eventually, she stretches with a satisfied sigh, slips off the couch, and saunters toward the kitchen—still naked, not caring in the least. You watch her go, her long legs gliding over the hardwood, the sway of her hips impossible to ignore. She pulls open the fridge, bends slightly, then emerges victorious with a tub of ice cream and two spoons.

“You deserve a treat,” she teases, dropping back down beside you. The cold sweetness melts quickly on your tongue, but the real indulgence is watching her lick her spoon clean, hair mussed, body bare, eyes dancing with mischief.

The laughter flows easy, stories exchanged, but eventually the clock on your phone reminds you of the hour. With a **** groan, you gather your clothes, pulling them back on piece by piece while she leans against the counter, still nude, still glowing.

Before you reach the door, you turn back, hesitate just a beat, then lean in for one more kiss. Her lips meet yours without hesitation, warm, lingering, her skin brushing your shirt. When you pull away, she’s still standing there, naked, smiling like she knows exactly what she’s done to you.

You shove your hands into your pockets, and step out. The cool air hits your face, and all you can think is one stunned, looping thought:

Damn. What a bombshell.